47

As the two armies stopped fighting and retreated to either side of the valley, Emerahl let out a long sigh.

I knew it was too good to be true, she thought. For a while there I thought these Pentadrians were going to solve my problem with the Circlians for me.

But the gods would never allow invading heathens to wipe out their followers. No doubt they had intervened in some way to ensure the White’s victory.

Why they had waited until the end of the day was a mystery. The low sun bathed the valley with a gentle light. It glinted off weapons and shields and turned white robes to gold. Most of those were on the ground, the belongings of the dead, dying and wounded.

Soon the Dreamweavers would begin their work.

She could sense a growing tension among the men and women standing nearby. They were waiting for the two armies to leave. She had never known Dreamweavers to be so hesitant or so fearful. Link memories of the slaughter of their kind had taught them to be cautious, she guessed.

After leaving the brothel caravan she had continued back down the road toward Toren for a few hours before leaving it and starting across the plains. Even if Rozea decided to keep the loss of her favorite to herself, stories of the whore who turned out to be a sorceress were bound to spread— and become exaggerated with each telling. If a Circlian priest decided to investigate, Emerahl wanted searchers to think she’d headed back to Toren. The last move they’d expect from her would be to continue following the army. At least she hoped that was the last move they’d expect.

Looking at the tense men and women nearby, she smiled. They didn’t know what to make of her. She was a young woman dressed in plain clothes roaming alone near a battlefield—too good-looking to be a solitary whore. When she had told them she was seeking the source of the tower dream and her theory that the dream was a link memory of Mirar’s death, the two men leading the group had moved away to have a long, private discussion.

“There is one among our kind who may be the dreamer you seek,” they had told her when they returned. “He has many link memories of Mirar’s. After we have done our work, we will take you to him.”

So she had waited with them and had seen the conclusion to the biggest battle ever waged on Northern Ithanian soil. It was hard to resist the opportunity. She had spent so much of her life avoiding conflict that she had rarely witnessed events that were likely to become legends.

Now I have something to relate around dinner tables and campfires, and my audience will never fail to be impressed, even millennia from now, she thought wryly.

Below, the White and black sorcerers parted. They moved slowly out of the valley. The body of the Pentadrian leader was lifted and carried away.

“They let them surrender,” one of the Dreamweavers said, clearly surprised.

“Perhaps even they acknowledge that there has been enough slaughter today.”

“I doubt it.”

Emerahl was inclined to agree with the last speaker, but she remained silent. Many of the Circlian fighters, priests and priestesses had remained in the valley and were moving among the dead and dying. So were some of the Pentadrians.

“It is time,” the leader of the Dreamweaver group said.

Emerahl felt the tension ease. Determination replaced it. The Dreamweavers started down the valley carrying bags of medicines, followed by students laden with sacks full of bandages and skins of water.

She could not join them. There were priests and priestesses still down there. If she roamed about, the only healer not wearing a Dreamweaver vest or Circlian circ, she would attract attention.

Then I need to blend in. I need Dreamweaver robes…

She turned to look at the tarns. There were bound to be a few spare garments in them. Surely the Dreamweavers wouldn’t mind if she borrowed a set?

Standing up, she strode back toward the Dreamweaver camp.

Priest Tauken stepped over a headless corpse and stopped. A young soldier lay a few strides away, arms wrapped tightly around his chest. He could hear the man gasping for breath. Moving to the soldier’s side, Tauken dropped into a crouch. The young man looked up at him, eyes wide with hope.

“Help me,” he gasped.

“Let me see,” Tauken replied.

The young man’s arms parted reluctantly. Clearly the movement caused him pain, but the only sound he managed was a whimper.

The soldier was wearing an iron chest-plate, but even that could not stop a blow by a good sword. A large gash in the plate glistened with blood.

“We have to get this off.”

The soldier allowed him to remove the armor. His gaze was growing dull. Tauken ripped away the clothing around the wound and bent close. He could hear a faint sucking sound. It came in time with the man’s breathing. His heart sank. There would be no saving this one.

As he rose, the two camp servants sent to help him regarded him expectantly. He looked at them and made a small gesture with his hand to indicate they would not be stopping. They nodded and looked away, and their expressions suddenly brightened with hope.

Tauken turned to see what they were looking at. A Dreamweaver woman stood nearby, watching him. From her looks he guessed she was Somreyan.

“Are you finished?” she asked.

Juran had decreed that the law against using Dreamweaver services had been lifted for the day. Tauken opened his mouth, then hesitated. To say “yes” aloud would be to tell the dying soldier he was done for. Instead, he nodded.

She moved forward and looked down at the man. “A chest wound. His lungs have been penetrated.”

As she kneeled before the soldier, Tauken turned away. He took a few steps then stopped as the woman gave a piercing whistle. Looking back, he saw a younger Dreamweaver hurry to her side. She took bandages from him, and lifted a small bowl for him to fill with water from a pitcher. As the young man hurried away again, answering another whistle, she took a small jar from her vest and tipped powder from it into the water.

Tauken knew he should move on, but curiosity kept him still. Her hands moving with practiced speed, the Dreamweaver bathed the wound then put the bloodied cloth aside. She paused. Tauken saw her shoulders rise and fall as she drew in and let out a deep breath, then she placed a hand on the wound and closed her eyes.

There was something wrong about all this. Seeing her using her Dreamweaver magic, Tauken finally realized what it was.

“You did not ask if he wanted your help,” he said.

She frowned, opened her eyes and turned to regard him.

“He is unconscious.”

“And so can hardly decide for himself.”

“Then you must decide for him,” she said calmly.

He stared at her. Once he would have told her to leave. Better the young soldier die than risk his soul by being healed by a Dreamweaver. But he knew he would want to live if he was the young man. If Juran could lift the ban for a day then the gods must intend to forgive those who chose to use Dreamweaver services.

Who am I to deny this man life? Accepting a Dreamweaver’s help does not mean a man or woman becomes one. And we could learn a lot from them.

He just hoped the young man agreed.

“Heal him,” he said. Beckoning to his helpers, he led them away.

“Gods forgive me,” he muttered to himself.

The Circlian camp was lit by a thousand torches. It ought to have been a cheerful sight, but those lights illuminated a grim scene.

Toward the end of the battle vorns had attacked the camp, killing defenseless servants and animals. Auraya could see survivors doing their best to tidy up the mess. Some were carrying corpses away, others were seeing to the wounded. Reyer that had lost their riders had been caught and were being used to carry others less fortunate to the edge of the camp.

Seeing this, Auraya almost wished she and her fellow White had finished the Pentadrians off.

The gods were right to let them live. I don’t like unnecessary slaughter. I don’t like necessary slaughter either, but killing a defeated enemy is too much like cold-blooded murder.

They had wanted to rid the world of the black sorcerers. Now, on reflection, she could see what the consequences might have been. The battle would have continued for a while longer and more people would have been killed.

She could also see that allowing the four black sorcerers to return to the southern continent might still be a decision they’d come to regret in the future. If the Pentadrian leader was replaced by an equally powerful sorcerer, Northern Ithania might face another invasion. However, it was extraordinary that five powerful sorcerers had been born in the last century or so. It was unlikely that another would be soon.

These southerners will think twice before confronting us again, Auraya told herself. She thought of the glowing figure she had seen after the Pentadrians had emerged from the mines. Whether illusion or new god, he clearly hadn’t ensured their victory. That, too, will give them reason to hesitate if they consider attempting another conquest.

Whereas our gods, through us, have protected Northern Ithania successfully. She smiled, but felt the smile fade. Since the moment the Pentadrian leader had died, she had replayed the scene over and over in her mind. Not to gloat at having dealt the fatal blow, but to work out what had happened.

She remembered it all clearly. There had been a new awareness of magic. She could sense it just as she could sense her position in relation to the world. If she concentrated, she could return to that state of awareness. Somehow it had enabled her to take and use more magic than ever before.

The other White had been surprised at the strength of her attack. From time to time she caught Juran regarding her with a puzzled frown. Perhaps she had learned to use her Gifts faster than he had expected her to. The others hadn’t been forced to gain skills quickly by war, however.

Or perhaps Juran was just surprised that she, rather than he, had been the one to deal the killing blow. If he was, he was not resentful about it. He seemed pleased with her. She accepted this approval a little warily, wondering if it extended to forgiveness for her affair with Leiard.

At the thought of Leiard she felt a stab of pain and was glad she was no longer closely linked with the other White. She straightened her back. He was a mistake of the past. A lesson in the perils of love. Now, after the battle, her infatuation seemed childish and foolish. It was time to think of more important things: the recovery of her people—and of the Siyee.

A lone mounted rider galloped back to the White. Auraya watched him, welcoming the distraction. The advisers had reported that King Guire and Moderator Meeran had returned a few hours after fleeing the vorns’ attack. King Berro, however, had not been seen.

The rider reined in before Juran. “No sign of him yet, Juran of the White. We could send a second group of trackers.”

“Yes,” Juran replied. “Do that.”

The man hurried away. The White continued down the slope toward the camp. When they had nearly reached it, Auraya heard a familiar high-pitched voice call her name.

She heard Danjin let out a relieved sigh as Mischief leapt down from the roof of a tarn and bounced over the muddy ground toward her. Two more veez followed him, one black, one orange. As Mischief ran up Auraya’s robe onto her shoulders, the other veez raced to Mairae and Dyara.

“Little escapee,” Dyara said, scratching the bright orange head of her pet. She looked at Mischief suspiciously. “Is he teaching Luck bad habits?”

Auraya smiled. “Probably. Does he—?”

Hearing the sound of wings, Auraya felt her heart skip. She looked up eagerly, and sighed with relief to see Speaker Sirri and two other Siyee circling down. As they landed, Juran stepped forward to meet them.

“Speaker Sirri. We are indebted to you and your people. You have been invaluable to us today.”

Sirri’s smile was grim. “It was our first experience of war. We have learned much today, at great cost, although our losses are nothing to yours. When the vorns attacked our non-fighters, they were able to escape.”

“All losses are equally terrible,” Juran replied. “Our healer priests will tend to Siyee wounded as well as landwalker.”

Sirri looked bemused, and Auraya saw images of the hundreds of Dreamweavers that had descended upon the battlefield in the woman’s thoughts.

“Then I will send the non-fighters of my people, who are fresh and able to carry small loads quickly, to help them.”

Juran nodded. “Their help would be most welcome. Is there anything else you need?”

“No. I just learned something that you may be interested to hear. One of my people noticed a man sitting in a tree to the northwest of here. My hunter said she was attracted by his shouting, but dared not land as she could hear one of those large predatory creatures of the enemy nearby.”

Juran’s eyebrows rose. “That is interesting. Could you send this hunter to us so that we may locate this man?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Speaker Sirri.”

She nodded, then stepped away. “I will gather my people and send as many helpers as I can to you.”

Her companions followed as she ran down the hill, leapt into the air and glided away. Juran turned to Auraya.

“I think it would be best if you accompanied this hunter.”

:Just… don’t rub it in too much, he added. There’s a fine line between earning gratitude and resentment.

:I imagine that for King Berro the line is fine indeed. I will be careful.

“This poor man will need a mount to carry him back,” she said aloud.

Juran smiled. “Yes, and familiar faces to ease the shock of his situation.”

She nearly laughed aloud. With a few landwalkers present to witness the rescue, everyone would know the Toren king owed the Siyee his life.

And that couldn’t be a bad thing.